At some point we beg mercy.
The storms come in one after another. Each one with its own excitement, its own beauty, its own destruction. And we, if we're very good, stand out on a point somewhere and open our arms and maybe even force our eyes to stay open. See what is coming upon us and what is yet to come.
I have weathered enough to know that I can weather another, another, another. Each one will be easier than the one before, even if it defies pattern and does not underwhelm but exceeds the forecast. But still.
But still, universe, take mercy.
One wonders how much to say. One wonders if there still might be a respite, a recovery, if one might find oneself sitting still after the waves crash in and have nothing more than some wet clothes as damage. All that comes of it, a warm shower; a good story to tell. A story of how wonderful it can be to weather things in concert with a partner who's the right amount of powerful.
One wonders if, on the other hand, the rocks will pierce her organs after she's tossed upon them. Will she even be able to walk again?
I can't do it. Can't go there yet, tell you all the story out of metaphor. I don't think I can write it with that clear voice that lets you still love him too. He's not breaking all my heart; just parts of it; just the ones that really are still so tender.
You can't help but see the breaking bits though. I don't want to start over again but I'm being asked to. And I fear in doing this, in asking me to move out on my own -- no safety net but the kindness of friends and none of them the sort I want to just plunk down my things and kids and say, ok, here I am -- I fear the one asking me to do it will, sometime months or years in the future, regret this, and not a little, but as something indelible he writ, one sentence across his psyche that will prove very hard to rub out.
This isn't written to him. This is written to you. I just want you to know how this feels: how it feels to piece yourself back together in a space that felt safe -- tentative but warm, but loving, but affirming, but accepting, but full of joy and intelligence and passion; to try again and again to create life with someone in whom you see all the characteristics that you most want to see not just replicated by replicated in combination with your own; to scrabble to start something like the community of which you've always dreamed. It's possible to believe a lot in yourself, and yet not really believe in anything; it's possible to remain in a cycle of continuous hope that's continuously dashed. It's something of the Sisyphus story, without ever having done anything quite like that to deserve it.
Maybe I have. Maybe my hubris is to, again and again, claim joy.
Moving out on one's own, in the midst of love, feels like a thin silicone blade, sharp but not serrated, so as not to saw at you. It's being inserted in your ribs just to the inside edge of your right breast, the part where it is flattening out at bit (mine are small, you know; imagine it, if you can). It makes a smooth and complete circle, a hole around your heart, and much though you believe it could happen, nothing is loosed. Nothing falls out. You just feel the chill air, there, not all the time but still almost constantly, in that tiny sliver made by the knife, around and around and around your green-glowing center. You wonder how it is you can still breathe, how it is your blood still moves, how it is your heart doesn't slide out the hole -- but each time the knife completes its circuit the flesh heals up again, coalesces. Not that it's ever failing to be tender. Not that it ever heals completely. Each time it gets the very littlest bit weaker. The knife inserts itself more easily. Your stomach aches but maybe you're hungry? Your jaw hurts but maybe you're clenching your teeth?
You cry. You cry easily and often. Not sobbing, not that; it's not full-on grief, remember. But it's so simple for tears to come. It's just a matter of letting go for an instant that sense that you are powerful, you are abundant, that love is so a conqueror!
Send love. Send hope that the waves won't dash me too. Send mercy.comments powered by Disqus